


Sussex Santa

by Loremaiden



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Christmas, Community: watsons_woes, Father Christmas - Freeform, Gen, Retirement Era, Sussex, WAdvent 2015, World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-13
Updated: 2015-12-13
Packaged: 2018-05-06 13:40:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5419190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loremaiden/pseuds/Loremaiden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Be good, for goodness sake.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sussex Santa

**Author's Note:**

> Written for WAdvent 2015 on Watson's Woes. Happy Holidays!

A knock on the cottage door interrupted my doze. I half-consciously started to rise from my armchair to answer it, but Holmes, not even looking up from his book, raised an imperious hand as a signal for me to remain where I was; the housekeeper was already making her way towards the foyer.

As she did so, I scrubbed a hand over my face to rouse myself, rueful that my appearance was not respectable for visitors. The laxity of retirement and visiting Holmes for the holidays had triggered in me a relapse of old bohemian habits; lazing about in my shirtsleeves in the middle of the day, legs wrapped in a blanket (it was a rather garish shade of red that I would not have chosen for myself, but it was a gift from a patient and was satisfyingly warm). I hadn't even shaved; I was beginning a beard to match my now snow-white moustache—which I had not trimmed today, I remembered with annoyance.

The housekeeper interrupted my woolgathering by announcing Mrs. Tuppen and her young son George. This was the village boy who, a day before my arrival, was playing near the cottage without permission. So deep was he in his imagination and so determined in his play of protecting dear old Blighty from the Kaiser that his slingshot cracked the window to the guest room and came perilously close to upsetting one of the hives. He ran off like the devil was at his heels when he realized what he had done, thinking that he could escape detection, but even if he had not incurred the ire of Sherlock Holmes... well, mothers always know when a child has done wrong.

“George, I believe you have something to say to Mr. Holmes.”

Holmes was now standing in front of the child, hawk-eyed and stern, his aging visage making him appear even more imposing than he did facing nervous criminals and slow inspectors in the old days. I tried to match his example, but I am afraid I made a poor show of it. It was just so comical that I could not fully stifle the chuckle in my throat or the twinkle in my eye; the sullen red-faced boy had marched into the room like a soldier facing a court martial, a petulant felon who was forced to confess his crimes on pain of death (or a maternal spanking). He refused to lift his head as he mumbled at the floor.

But his warden was relentless. “Speak up, George. And say it to Mr. Holmes, not his carpet.”

He then slowly looked up, stubborn to the last. But when his gaze fell on me, a change came suddenly upon him. The color drained from his cheeks, the defiant glare transformed into terrified awe. He then burst out, almost in tears, “I am very very sorry I cracked your window and almost hurt your bees! I'll never do it again, never _ever_ , I promise!” And he tore out of the cottage, leaving the three of us utterly bewildered.

“What on earth--! Well, ah, a Merry Christmas to you, gentlemen.” The flummoxed Mrs. Tuppen quickly thrust a card into Holmes' hand before she hurried off to try and catch up with her son, who was surely already halfway home by the speed in which he retreated from us.

Holmes looked at the card, then at me, and burst out in his barking laughter.

I joined in his mirth, even though I could not begin to guess what I had done to cause the lad's outburst of desperate contrition. “What the devil was that all about, Holmes?”

As usual, my friend had made the mental connection before I could. To assist me, he brought the card to my chair, along with the mirror from the fireplace mantel.

In my left hand was the mirror, reflecting my unkempt self back at me. In my right was the card...an illustration of Father Christmas in all his holiday glory; twinkling eyes, red attire, and white facial hair. The way my face fell only made Holmes laugh all the harder.

I tossed the blanket off my legs and made my way to the washroom. A shave was long overdue.


End file.
